Dime a Dozen
by Lyrical Ballads
Summary: Spot Conlon ain't a king. That's just what he wants you to think.
1. I

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Newsies_.

**Author's Note:** I don't know why, but lately I really like exploring Spot's possible future. I wrote a fic a couple of months ago called _For the Record _that explored Spot's future, and here I go again with another story that takes Spot on a different possible route. What fun!

* * *

><p><strong>Dime a Dozen<strong>

I.

Spot Conlon ain't a king. That's just what he wants you to think.

Most street rats hear the name of Spot Conlon and act like you're talking about the President himself, but I'm telling you, he's as much of a king as _I_ am. He don't even notice me when I walk through the doors of O'Neill's saloon, even though he's standing right behind the bar with a bird's-eye view of everything. Can you believe it? A month ago he could sense me a mile off, and now he don't even give me the time of day.

I'm tempted to pull out my harmonica and blow a sharp blast on it, just to get his attention, but there's a whole lot of huge, bearded micks in the joint who wouldn't take too kindly to little ol' me making a racket. I may be a wise guy, but I ain't stupid. Spot keeps standing behind the bar, pouring something out of a bottle for the most red-faced mick I've ever seen, and I make sure to keep my distance from _that_ drunk lobster of a fella as I find a rickety bar stool to sit on.

Trust the Irish to have shoddy furniture in their saloons. Yeah, yeah, I'm half-Irish myself—where else would I get a name like Higgins?—but the Italian half of me thinks it's shoddy.

Now picture this: the great Spot Conlon, so-called king of the Brooklyn newsies, who used to rule the docks with an iron fist and strike fear into the hearts of anybody who dared to cross him, has traded in his infamous cane and his slingshot. Even those tell-tale red suspenders have disappeared. Instead he's hanging around indoors when I know for a fact that he _hates_ the indoors, and to top it all off he's tied down to this dingy little bar answering to the beck and call of drunk Irishmen all day long.

Is this really Spot Conlon or am I losing my marbles?

Oh, it's Spot all right. I'd bet every penny I've ever earned that the king of Brooklyn himself stands right before me, finally noticing me with those eyes that can see through a fella like he's made of smoke. He don't even look surprised, but what do you expect? You could walk around stark naked singing Spain's national anthem at the top of your lungs and Spot wouldn't look surprised.

"Well if it ain't Racetrack," he says, all smug-like. "I thought you wasn't a drinker."

"I ain't," I say. "I'm still a cigar man, through-and-through."

"Then what are ya doin' _here_?"

"Now that's funny." I even chuckle for good measure. "I came here to ask ya the same thing. How did Brooklyn's best newsie end up servin' liquor for a living?"

He don't answer me, 'cause some old fella who looks at least eighty plunks down his empty mug and asks for more ale. A fella that old must have ale running in his veins at this point. What are they gonna do, bury him in a beer barrel instead of a casket?

I crack myself up.

Spot serves the old man and ignores me for about thirty seconds, until he realizes I ain't going nowhere and glares at me like I'm a stray dog that wandered in. "You gonna order somethin'?"

"Why'd ya leave the newsies?" I ask.

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Why's the sky blue?"

"That don't make no sense."

"Then don't ask stupid questions, Race."

"Who says it's a stupid question?"

"_I_ do, and if you ain't gonna order somethin' then beat it. We don't hold with loiterers 'round here."

Same ol' Spot Conlon, thinking he can boss the whole world, but it's downright strange to see him out of his element. Most of the Brooklyn newsies was bigger then him, which didn't stop him from bossing those fellas around, but in the saloon he looks like a _kid _surrounded by all these older, hefty, bearded guys. I've never seen Spot look so young before and I wonder how he got this job in the first place. Same way he became leader of the Brooklyn newsies, I guess, though even _that_ is a mystery.

"All right, then, Your Majesty," I said. "I'm outta here."

He acts like he don't hear me, but I know he does. Spot's poker face is almost as good as mine, but it ain't good enough to fool me when I _know_ he's gotta be thinking about my visit to his new home. He's gotta be wondering why I had the nerve to come see him, though he won't ask outright if he can help it. The old Spot would tell a couple of his boys to tail me for a while and then report back to him, but this ain't the old Spot and his boys are managing out there by themselves.

He's only been gone for a month, but Brooklyn just ain't Brooklyn without him. I don't live in Brooklyn and even _I_ can see it.

I slide off my rickety bar stool and head for the doors, dodging drunk micks left and right on the way, and don't look back as I step out of O'Neill's saloon.

But I _will_ be back. You can bet your life on it.

* * *

><p>The strike was two or three years ago, but the lodging house looks the same as ever. Snipeshooter is still here and the little brat <em>still<em> likes to steal my cigars, even though he's old enough to get 'em on his own now. Mush, Blink, and Crutchy are still around, but Jack left a while ago. Couldn't expect Cowboy to stick around when he was getting older and was restless besides. Me and the other fellas had a running bet on how long Cowboy would stay until he cracked, and I still like to tease Specs on how much money he lost to yours truly here.

He says I rigged everything, but Specs is just a sore loser. He tossed away that old bowler hat he used to wear all the time, but his glasses are the same and so is his mouth.

Aw, but who am I kidding? Specs is like a brother to me, even if he _does_ question my skills as a bookie.

Aside from Jack, I don't see Davey and his brother Les around no more either. Guess they're in school or something. I see ol' Denton every now and then and Medda Larkson still puts on a great show, and of course Weasel's fat ass still hands out the papers. Haven't seen the Delancey brothers in months, but I'm sure Weasel will replace 'em with somebody just as dumb sooner or later.

Oh, and Skittery ain't here no more either. He knocked up some broad a while ago and got a factory job so he could do his duty and marry her or something. Can you believe it? _Skittery_, for crying out loud. Of all the fellas in Manhattan, Skittery's the last one I would expect to get in _that_ kind of mess. Didn't think the stick-in-the-mud had it in him, for one thing.

Guess that goes to show you how things can change. Like Spot, for instance.

I'm eating a meager supper with some of the boys when I finally let the news slip. "Went and saw Spot Conlon today."

Blink is the first one to react. He usually is. "Spot _Conlon_?" he echoes, as if he's never heard the name before.

"Yeah, Spot Conlon," I say. "Who else would I mean? The king of England?"

"How is he, anyway?" asks Specs.

I'm not really sure how to respond. "Okay, I guess. Different."

"Different how?" asks Mush.

"I dunno. He don't have his cane or his red suspenders, for one thing. He serves a bunch of micks who drink like fishes and it don't even bother him. He ain't no king of Brooklyn no more, that's for sure."

"Did he tell ya why he left the papes?" asks Blink.

"Are ya kiddin' me? You could get a whore to give ya a free night more easily than you could get an answer outta Spot. He's as close-mouthed as ever. Can't imagine why, when he don't even got much to live for these days. Ya shoulda _seen_ him."

Mush's eyes have gotten big, just like they used to do when Jack told some dashing story about dodging the bulls. "Ya think he's happy at all? Or does he miss the old life?"

"Damned if I know. Only saw him for a few minutes, really, and he couldn't wait to kick me outta the joint. I'd bet twenty bucks he didn't want nobody comin' to see him, whether they was a friend or not."

Specs is looking all thoughtful as he eats, except his glasses make him look cross-eyed when he thinks real hard. "I don't get it," he says. "Spot ain't even that old. I'm a bit older than him and _I'm _still sellin'. _You_ fellas are still sellin' for all you're worth."

"And Spot was the best newsie in Brooklyn," Blink adds. "Everybody knows he could sell fifty papes with his eyes closed. You _sure_ he didn't tell ya why he left, Race?"

"Don'tcha think I woulda told ya by now if he had?" I shoot back. "Besides, who says this is the last time I'm gonna see him? And if you fellas are so curious then you can go down to the saloon yourselves, ya know."

They all fall silent after that. Mush's spoon scrapes against his bowl, but that's the only sound I hear as I think about all those unanswered questions floating through my head. Sure, Spot likes to keep himself to himself, but he's a friend of mine, and he's gotta crack sooner or later if I grill him hard enough, right?

Besides, he's only been out of action for a month. A fella can't change _all_ that much in just a month.

He's still Spot Conlon. Right?


	2. II

II.

I hate saloons.

Give me the open air and the free-and-easy spirit of the racetrack any day, and I'm a happy fella. Or give me a poker table, where every man knows what he's about and can match you wit for wit if he's a good player. As much as I love to gamble, walking into a saloon feels like _too much_ of a gamble if you ask me.

You never know when a drunken brawl's gonna break out, for one thing, and I don't mind betting on those odds as long as _I'm_ outside the joint and away from the action. Not that I'm a coward or anything, 'cause I sure as hell ain't, but I like the odds to stay in my favor.

I walk into O'Neill's saloon nearly two weeks after my first visit—hey, I've got a life, you know—and as soon as I walk in the door these two drunkards start throwing punches at each other. Typical Irish behavior. You can't put a drink in a mick's hand without expecting him to get wild and try to break a few heads. My old pop was living proof of that.

Could be that my pop is the reason I hate saloons.

I steer clear of the fight just in time, 'cause soon the punches lead to knocking chairs over and throwing empty tankards around, and a few big fellas finally grab the fighting micks and drag 'em outside. Everybody else just carries on as if nothing happened, as if these fights happen every hour of the day, so I just shrug it off and seat myself on the same rickety bar stool I occupied two weeks ago.

Spot stands a few feet away, smirking to himself as he serves a couple of loudmouths with bushy mustaches. Now what does _he_ find so amusing?

He looks the same as he did a couple of weeks ago, only a little cockier if that's possible. As if Spot Conlon wasn't cocky enough. What, did they crown him bartender of the month or something? What an achievement.

He moves in front of me now, looking less irritated than last time. "And here I was thinkin' I scared you off, Race."

"Wishful thinkin'," I say. "Your ugly mug don't bother me _that_ much."

"So you gonna order somethin' or what?"

"What about _you_, Spot? Must get awful boring to stand behind that bar all day. Betcha could use some amusement now and then."

Spot's expression don't change a bit. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

If we was playing a game of poker, this would be the part where I wager something grand, just to catch the other fellas by surprise and make 'em play even harder. I've got my dwindling stack of papers in my lap, a stroke of genius on my part, and I hold one of 'em out to show Spot. "When was the last time ya heard any news?" I ask.

He glances at the paper like it's trash. "What's it matter?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe 'cause the news was the reason you ate and got a roof over your head in the old days. Maybe 'cause the news turned you into somebody, when you woulda been a nobody without it."

"And what's that s'posed to mean? You callin' me a nobody?" Spot sounds bored instead of angry, the smug son of a bitch.

I just smile at him and slap the paper down on the counter so the headline stares up at him. "Oh, and I don't know, maybe I thought you'd want a copy. Ya know, for old time's sake."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I ain't got time to read the papes."

"Sure ya do. You've got plenty of time to chat with me, don'tcha?"

Spot shoots me a look, the same look he used when another newsie got too mouthy for his liking, and turns away from me to pour somebody a beer. King of Brooklyn indeed. A damned turncoat is what Spot really is and he don't even care.

"Ain't you a bit young to be a bartender?" I ask as soon as he isn't busy.

"Ain't _you_ a bit old to be sellin' papes still?" he replies.

"No older than you, and I still got plenty of sellin' days left. You woulda had plenty too, if you'd stayed."

Spot stares me down, looking just like the old Spot except for the missing cane and suspenders. "Why don'tcha just spit it out already, Race?" he says. "You didn't have no trouble askin' me the last time you was here. You wanna know why I left the Brooklyn newsies, don'tcha?"

"Maybe, maybe not," I say vaguely. "Depends on if you're gonna tell me."

He just looks at me for a long moment, those eyes of his unreadable like the stiffest poker face known to man. "Ever heard of a kid called Matchbox?" he asks.

Now what does _that_ got to do with anything? "No," I say.

"Then I don't need to tell ya nothin'." And Spot busies himself like I ain't even there, obviously not wanting to talk anymore. He never even touched that paper I set on the bar.

I see how it is. I grab that single paper, adding it to my stack, and stroll right outta the joint, making my escape before another brawl breaks out. If Spot prefers long hours indoors, bad-tempered micks, and enough liquor to drown a whale, then fine. See if I care. Spot wasn't even that great of a friend to begin with, anyway.

So there.

* * *

><p>The lodging house is quiet aside from Boots, who finished selling the same time I did and came back to count his money. When he stands up and greets me with a clap on the back, he's taller than me now. Kid shot up like a weed, which ain't fair at all.<p>

"You seen Spot at all lately?" I ask casually, fishing in my pockets for a cigar.

"Saw him a few days ago," says Boots. "His eyes still gimme the creeps. _You_ been to see him at all lately?"

"Yeah, I was at the saloon earlier today. The smirkin' bastard won't tell me nothin' about why he left his boys, but he mentioned some kid named Matchbox. You ever heard of him?"

Boots shakes his head. "Nope. And if I was you, I'd leave Spot Conlon alone. He musta left for a reason, right?"

Well I know _that_, but it don't change the fact that I want a straight answer out of him. I've spent years trading wisecracks with Spot, winning and losing money with him in poker games, and fighting with him against Pulitzer, the bulls, and the whole wide world. Don't I deserve to know what drove him away from a life that made him famous among street rats? Don't the rest of us newsies deserve to know?

I take an irritated puff on my cigar, blowing smoke towards the ceiling, when Specs comes in and asks us how we're doing. Boots goes right on back to counting his money, but I fix Specs with a look and take another drag on my cigar.

"Hey, Specs. You ever heard of some kid named Matchbox?"

Specs' eyes go all squinty behind his glasses. "Am I s'posed to?"

You ever hear such a smart aleck as Specs? What can I say? He learned from the best. "Nah, you ain't s'posed to, unless you _have_ heard of him. Have ya?"

"Can't say that I have. Why do ya ask?"

"Cause Spot mentioned him today. Can ya believe the bum? Instead of bein' a decent friend and explainin' himself like any normal fella would, he drops these no-good hints instead. Like the rest of us don't matter at all."

"Why do you gotta be so bothered by it?" asks Specs. "He's got a new life now and that's that. What's it matter?"

"Bothered?" I echo, waving my cigar around. "Who says I'm bothered? I'm just tryin' to get some answers here."

"You're bothered, Race," Boots chimes in.

Jack wouldn't have had to take this kind of crap if he was here. But of course I ain't Jack. "Well what if _I_ up and left you fellas without sayin' why? Wouldn't ya feel like I stabbed you in the back?"

"I'd feel like the evenin' card games would be easier to win," Specs says with a grin.

"Ah, you're hopeless." I throw my cigar at him and walk off.

Spot's gotta be hiding something, and I ain't giving up on finding what it is.


	3. III

III.

The track ain't my friend today. The track ain't my friend, the jockeys ain't my friends, and those lousy, flea-bitten horses ain't my friends neither.

How can a fella make five bucks on betting one week and lose all he's got the next week? I thought it was a sure thing, too, as sure as my heart beating in my chest. Except my heart is feeling pretty black right now 'cause I put all my dough on the wrong horse, and my bookie ain't gonna be too happy with all the debts I haven't paid. Maybe I'll send Julietta 'round to his place and get her to sweeten his mood. It's _her_ fault I bet on the wrong horse in the first place.

That's what you get when you take gambling advice from a girl. Not that Julietta's stupid or anything. She's full-blooded Sicilian, you know, with waves of dark hair and dark eyes that just _look_ at you a certain way, and everybody knows that Sicilians know how to do business. Guess her pop never taught her how to pick a good horse though.

I managed to sell a few papers after the big loss, but what's a handful of pennies compared to the old sum? There's only one thing for me to do when I'm down on my luck and don't feel like doing nothing productive to make it better.

It's time to pay another visit to Spot Conlon.

I hitch a ride on the back of a carriage (the most surefire way for any street rat to travel fast) and next thing I know I'm strolling into O'Neill's as casual as you please, even though my pockets are almost empty and my spirits ain't so great. How long has it been since I was last here? A week? Week and a half? Hasn't been that long, really, but I still can't get used to the look and feel of this place. It just ain't what you'd imagine as the new realm of Spot Conlon, you know what I mean?

He wasn't no king to begin with, and that's a fact. Spot was just a kid who got lucky and went running 'cause he couldn't handle the luck, that's all.

Fearless leader, my ass. The only thing his leadership did was land him behind a bar all day, which I guess is better than being behind bars in a plural sense, but it still ain't nothing to brag about. Do I really gotta describe the usual drunk micks and shoddy bar stools that litter the place all over again? This saloon in particular is _really_ nothing to brag about and I plunk myself down in the usual seat and wait for His Highness to come over and smirk at me.

Which he soon does, as predictable as clockwork. Since when did Spot Conlon become predictable, anyway?

"Gimme a light," I say, holding out a fresh cigar. "That's all I'm orderin' today."

Spot just smirks even harder. "Get your own damn light."

"I'm outta matches."

"Then go get some. What do you think this is, a fancy parlor where people wait on ya?"

"Gee, I don't know. I thought it was more like a place where street boys go when they feel like runnin' out on their friends. I hear the Brooklyn boys do nothin' but fight over sellin' spots these days, but of course you wouldn't know about that. Too busy to hear any news, am I right?"

Yeah, I got a lot of nerve. But _somebody_ 'round here has gotta have nerve.

Spot don't look amused, but of course he don't look like anything when he's got his blank face on. Bet he hasn't played a game of poker in weeks, though you'd never guess from that face he's wearing. "You ever gonna get tired of this, Race?"

I put my cigar away, seeing as he ain't gonna give me a light. "Tired of what?"

"I ain't gotta say it," he replies. "You _know_ what I'm talkin' about. Of all the fellas who have come here to gawk at me, you've gotta be the worst, and I used to think you was the best of the Manhattan boys. As mighty as Jacky-boy, maybe even better, but you really ain't nothin' but a petty little wisecrack, no better than the rest of 'em."

Well I've got my mouth hanging open at this point, but only 'cause I've got some good insults I'm ready to hurl back at the bum. "Yeah, well ya know what? You can take this job of yours and shove it—"

But he walks off to tend to his precious patrons, so I fall silent and glare at the bottles that line the shelves behind the bar. Who does he think he is, anyway? Lousy, good-for-nothing mick, just like all the other Irish fellas who drink and swear and brawl all day. Just like my Irish pop, who gave my Italian mama a scar on her forehead when he felt like going wild one night.

All right, I guess Spot ain't _that_ bad, but he deserves a good kick where it really hurts. And to think that I went around calling him my friend not long ago.

Guess it's good to know how he _really_ feels, eh?

A few hours after I leave O'Neill's, I run into Skittery. I'm heading towards Tibby's restaurant, trying to sell a few more papers along the way, when I see that familiar face coming right towards me. Skittery still slouches a bit, like he don't got the confidence to stand up straight, and he looks tireder than I remember. The factory must be one hell of a rough place and I don't envy him one bit.

"Hiya, Skitts," I say, clapping him on the back like old times. "How's life been treatin' ya?"

"Same as it always has," says Skittery. "I break my back at a job I don't want for a measly salary I don't deserve, while rich folks on Fifth Avenue enjoy their fancy steak dinners and nice carriage rides."

Leave it to Skittery to tell it like it is. Guess he's more honest than the rest of us, though. "Aw, you wouldn't like bein' a rich man anyway, Skitts. Let's say you and me forget about the harsh world and have a sausage dinner at Tibby's, just like we used to do."

"Can't," Skittery mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Eileen wants me to go to the drugstore and then come straight home."

Almost forgot that ol' Skittery is tied down by a broad and a kid now. I still don't get how in the hell it happened, either. "That's too bad," I say. "How's the kid?"

"Good, I guess. I don't see him much."

"And how's the dame?"

Skittery shrugs. "Livin' with her ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"Why'd ya marry her then?"

He's still got his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet around like he used to do when we was younger. "Didn't want Eileen to end up like my ma. Didn't want her kid growin' up without a pop, like I did."

"Eh, sometimes havin' a pop ain't all it's cracked up to be either."

"Thanks a lot, Race."

"Wasn't talkin' about _you_ personally, Skitts. Lighten up a little."

Skittery's mouth tightens around the corners and he don't say nothing. He can be a real clam whenever I tease him, so I laugh and give him a punch on the shoulder. "Aw, I'm just playin' with ya. Go on home to the wife and try to relax."

"I'll see ya around, Race."

Skittery heads off to the drugstore, while I continue on my stroll to Tibby's. It ain't until I'm inside the restaurant and sitting at a table that a realization hits me hard enough to take my appetite. Skittery's all grown up, what with his dame and his kid and all, and the rest of us are grown up too whether we want it or not. We're all growing up and it didn't even hit me 'til now.

Skittery realized it, and Spot realized it, but _I_ never realized it. Here I am, living my life the same way I did before the strike, as if time keeps passing without me getting any older. But I _do_ get older, and so do the rest of us fellas who are still living at the lodging house and selling on the streets every day. Maybe Spot ain't so wrong after all.

What the hell am I doing at Tibby's anyway? Nobody eats here anymore. I walk out of the restaurant without ordering nothing and wander around for a bit, then head on to Julietta's place. Luckily her big, scary, Sicilian papa ain't home, otherwise I'd turn tail and leave, 'cause the last thing I want is a big Italian glowering at me like I've come to defile his daughter. I ain't that kind of guy, but Julietta's papa don't trust the Irish in me. Hell, _I _don't even trust the Irish in me.

Julietta takes me to the fire escape, 'cause she shares a room with two younger sisters, and spends a good two or three minutes greeting me with her mouth and murmuring to me in Italian.

Bless the Italian language.

I try not to get too caught up in the moment, 'cause I'm trying to be a little more serious after my great realization, and I take Julietta by the hand 'cause girls seem to like that kinda stuff. "Say, Julietta, I ain't mad about that bet earlier. I mighta bet on the wrong horse even _without_ your advice."

"You sure you ain't mad, Tony?" she asks. The only people who call me by my real name are the girls I spend time with. A name like Racetrack just don't belong on a dame's lips.

"Course I ain't mad. I wouldn't of said it if I _was_, now would I?"

"I don't know," she says, blinking at me with those dark eyes. "You say a lotta things, and then you laugh and say you're just kiddin'."

Boy, she's got great eyes.

"Well I ain't laughin' this time, doll, and I ain't kiddin' either."

She gives me some more Italian for another minute or two. If her papa was here I'd get the tar beat out of me, but he _ain't_ here and something about Julietta's low voice and soft touch sparks something inside me. I look her right in the eyes and say something I never thought I'd say in a million years.

"Ya know, I think I'll give up on the horse bets for a week or two. Find another hobby, maybe."

And I mean it. I'm growing up, just like the rest of 'em.


	4. IV

IV.

I don't know why I keep coming back. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, but I'm willing to take a gamble with Spot one more time. I ain't a gambler for nothing, right?

Took me days to earn back the money I lost at the track. Guess it's a good thing I decided not to bet down there for a while, though every time I see a horse-drawn carriage clopping down the street I get tempted real bad. That's when I go find Julietta to distract myself, though my spending time with her ain't serious or nothing. Her big Sicilian papa is too frightening for me to be serious about her, even if I wanted to be.

Let me tell you, it's no easy task walking into O'Neill's saloon when my last two visits went so badly. I half-expect some red-faced Irish bruiser to throw me out at this point, but nobody tries tossing me into the street. Bet they're wondering why an Italian-looking runt keeps coming in here, though. _I'm_ wondering the same thing, but it don't stop me from walking into the joint and narrowly escaping this clumsy mick who can't take three steps without stumbling all over the place.

"Watch where you're goin', brat," he growls at me.

I swear at him in Italian.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: bless the Italian language.

Good thing that mick is so clumsy, or else they'd be cleaning my blood off the floor. I dodge the fool just in time and sit at the very end of the bar, where I'm less likely to piss off anyone else. As much as I love getting on people's nerves—c'mon, it's hilarious—this really ain't the time for me to upset anyone.

Spot's all the way at the other end of the bar, but my eyes ain't on him for long. There's a girl hanging around the bar, completely out of place among all these rough-looking fellas, but she sure ain't here for the booze. Nice looking girl too, with blonde hair pinned up on her head and lips that are just begging for some action. I've seen girls look at Spot the same way this one is looking at him, except Spot is actually talking to her and smiling at her, like he cares or something.

Now that ain't like Spot at all.

For as long as I've known him, Spot's never had no time for girls. Always said they're a waste of time and money, and that you can't trust 'em for anything. He claims that the key to his success is that he never wastes time chasing skirts, so it's a little unsettling to see Spot respond to some saloon girl. What's the matter with him?

True, I've been seeing Julietta, but I've _always_ had casual flings with Italian girls. With Spot it's different. It's been less than two months since he left the newsies, which really ain't that long of a time, but he ain't the same fella I used to call my friend. I guess that's the _real_ reason I've been upset these last few weeks. It's like that time during the strike when Jack turned scab without warning and shocked the rest of us out of our skins. Boy, I was so mad I could barely see straight. Spot might have killed somebody if the bulls hadn't held him back.

And then to make matters worse, Jack's name wasn't even his real name, and for a while I felt like I never even knew the guy at all. That's how I feel with Spot, as if the moment he stopped being a newsie he stopped being himself.

"Hey, bartender," I say loudly. "Can't a hard-workin' fella whet his thirst around here?"

Spot turns away from the girl and strolls on over to my side of the bar, taking his sweet time about it, and as usual he ain't surprised to see me. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew I was coming to O'Neill's before I even got here. At least _that_ hasn't changed about him, at least not yet.

"What, did ya decide to become a drinker?" asks Spot.

"Nope, still a cigar man," I say.

"That don't mean you can't drink."

"It means I can only have three vices: cigars, gamblin', and dark-eyed Italian girls. Four vices would be too many."

Spot smirks, but it ain't a malicious smirk. "Same old Race."

I can't say the same about _him_. "So who's the skirt?"

That smirk ain't a smirk no more. "None of your business."

"Since when do you pay any mind to dames, anyway? You always say you can't trust 'em."

"Well maybe I can change my mind. Ain't no rule that says I gotta think and act the way I always have, now is there?"

"I never said there was."

"But you believe it, don'tcha?" Spot ain't angry, exactly, but his eyes blaze with something I can't describe. "What are ya gonna do? Sell papes, bet down at the racetrack, and puff on your cigars every day 'til ya get old and keel over? Is that what you're gonna do, Race?"

"No, it ain't what I'm gonna do," I say. I figured all that out for myself, after all. "I just gotta keep askin' questions, 'cause I feel like I don't know ya no more."

Well that shuts him up real quick. For about two and a half seconds, that is.

"You don't know nothin' about me," says Spot. "So stop tryin' to pretend that you do. And if you ain't gonna order somethin', then beat it, 'cause you got no reason to be here."

I know a threat when I see one, but I can't resist one last question. "All right, I'm out," I say, like I've decided to fold in a poker game. "But are you ever gonna tell me who Matchbox is?"

"No," says Spot.

"The skirt ain't Matchbox, is she?"

He glares at me. "Course not. Her name's Gracie. Now get outta here before I throw you out."

I don't like it, but I do as I'm told.

I'm still thinking about the mysterious Matchbox as I loiter outside of O'Neill's, smoking a cigar to give myself something to do. This Matchbox kid could be anybody, but there's also a lot of people he can't be. He can't be some tough guy who shoved Spot out of Brooklyn, or else us Manhattan boys would have heard of him, and he can't be a second-in-command that Spot gave power to, otherwise Spot would have told me outright.

I guess Matchbox could be a little-known thug who's been secretly making threats, but that don't add up neither. Spot wouldn't leave his boys to deal with a thug on their own. I start pacing up and down the street, and I keep on smoking cause it helps me think, and then a brilliant idea hits me. 'Course, brilliant ideas hit me all the time. I'm just an intelligent kinda guy, you know?

I'll wait for Spot to come out of the saloon when his shift's over, and then I'll follow him. Ain't no different than what my old pal would have done to me if our places was switched, except Spot would have had his "birds" do the following for him.

The hard part is waiting for Spot to come out.

Just as I expect, he walks out of the saloon like he owns the joint with that girl—Gracie, he said her name is—hanging onto his arm and looking at him like he's God's gift to New York. I duck out of sight behind some fella with a cart full of wares for sale, then wait for Spot and Gracie to start walking off before I follow 'em. And boy, following 'em ain't as much fun as I thought it would be. Spot keeps pulling Gracie into alleys and I don't see nothing from my hiding spots, but I can _hear_ her giggling, the type of giggle that can get a fella nice and ready, if you know what I mean.

I start to get real bored when this happens for the third time, but then Spot looks at Gracie all serious and says, "Come over to my place when it gets dark. I'm gonna go pay my respects first."

Gracie just nods her blonde head, like it ain't a big deal. "I'll be waitin' for ya," she says sweetly, in a way that no skirt has ever dared to talk to Spot before.

But I ain't wondering about Spot's sudden interest in girls, 'cause I got more important things on my mind.

Spot's gotta pay his respects? To who? The President of the United States? Ain't likely, but maybe he's talking about the mysterious Matchbox.

If that's the case, then I guess Matchbox really _is_ a thug. Must be a powerful kid if he's got somebody like Spot Conlon doing his bidding, and after Gracie leaves I follow Spot down a few more streets 'til he stops at this miserable looking plot of land.

Even though I'm hiding behind a thick tree, I can tell what kind of place this is. It's one of those plots of ground where they bury the poor people, the lowest of the low who don't got families or anybody to give 'em a grave in a proper cemetery. Spot walks around for a bit 'til he finds the grave he's looking for, and then he just stands there with a face made of stone, impossible to figure out even when he's by himself.

I gotta admit, it gives me the creeps.

"I'm sorry, Matchbox," says Spot, and then he walks off with his hands in his pockets.

Just like that.

Nothing but a blank face, a quiet "I'm sorry," and he's walking away from those poor graves, leaving me to stand behind that tree feeling like the sky just fell down. Out of all the things for Spot Conlon to do, this has gotta be fifty times more surprising than Gracie, and the saloon job, and everything else he's said and done in the last few weeks.

Well, whoever Matchbox is, he ain't living on this earth no more, and I'm no closer to an answer.


	5. V

V.

"Race, I'm tellin' ya, you've gotta drop this Spot nonsense," says Blink, getting all worked up the way he always does. "You're gettin' obsessed!"

"_Gettin' _obsessed?" says Specs. "The fool already _is_ obsessed."

"Aw, you can both go to hell," I say. "Ain't you fellas curious at all? Don'tcha wanna know why Spot's payin' visits to some dead kid's grave and sayin' he's sorry? Or am I the only one who cares about somebody who used to be one of us, even if he ain't from Manhattan?"

They both just look at me for a moment, the two-bit bums. Soon as I found out that the mysterious Matchbox is lying underground, I told the first two fellas I ran into, and what do they do? They got the nerve to say I'm obsessed.

"It's not that we don't care," says Specs, looking at me real hard through his fogged-up glasses. "But it's Spot Conlon, Race. Nobody understood Spot and there ain't nobody who ever will."

"Spot Conlon does what Spot Conlon wants," Blink adds. "You try to pry into his business, and you'll just piss him off."

I oughtta knock their heads together, the dummies.

"Oh, c'mon," I say. "Ya talk about him like he's some kinda legend. Spot ain't nothin' but a beaten-down kid, same as you and me. Spot ain't _nothin'_."

"If Spot ain't nothin', then what does that make us?" asks Blink. "Dust on the ground?"

"Spot ain't no better than the rest of us and I'll prove it to ya. I'll find out the story behind this dead kid and _then_ you'll see that I've been right all along."

"Whatever ya say, Race," says Specs. We're all standing outside the lodging house and he heads inside, like a real quitter. Soon Blink follows him and I'm left outside by myself, wishing I hadn't smoked my last cigar. I'm about to go off and see if I can find some unsuspecting fella I can steal a smoke from, when I hear a voice that stops me in my tracks.

"Hiya, Race! How ya doin'? How'd the sellin' go? Look, this nice old gent let me have a _whole_ nickel 'cause he ran outta pennies. Can ya believe it?"

Crutchy comes hobbling toward me, yakking away like he's got all the time in the world, and suddenly I know what to do. Didn't I say I get hit with brilliant ideas all the time? Well it's truer than you can believe.

"Crutchy!" I say, acting like I'm thrilled to see him. "Just the fella I've been wantin' to talk to."

His face brightens up so fast, you'd think I just offered him a million dollars. "Gee, Race. Really? What do ya wanna talk about?"

"Listen, Crutchy. I got a little favor I wanna ask ya."

"Sure, sure. I'm _great_ at doin' favors!"

The poor bastard is like a dog just begging to do tricks for somebody. "Good to hear, Crutchy. Good to hear. I knew you was just the man for the job. What I need ya to do is go into a saloon called O'Neill's and talk to Spot Conlon for me."

Crutchy will drive Spot nuts. After two minutes of listening to that happy-go-lucky chatter, Spot will crack for sure. He'll _have_ to talk.

I give Crutchy careful instructions, repeating myself about twice so he understands, and watch him hobble off with a spring in his step worthy of someone with two good legs. Crutchy may be annoying as hell sometimes, but he sure loves to please people and likes to feel useful. The crip has got his pride, you know, and I can't imagine what he's gonna do when he can't sell papers no more. Who's gonna hire a fella who can't walk without a crutch?

Maybe he'll get lucky and find a fortune in the street. Maybe the sky will turn green.

And if I keep thinking about stuff like this, I'm just gonna depress myself, and depression don't look good on me. I head on over to Julietta's place, 'cause if anybody can make me feel un-depressed it's Julietta, with her sweet Italian voice and her nice Italian eyes. Gee, I just love being half-Italian 'cause all I gotta do is tip my hat and say _buongiorno _to a pretty girl and she's all mine. Guess I should be grateful that I took after my mama.

'Course, seeing Julietta is almost as risky as betting on the horse races. Two seconds after I knock on her door, her big, scary papa opens it and looms in the doorway, glowering at me like I'm the worst kind of tramp. What the hell did I ever do to _him_, anyway? Pardon me for existing, mister.

"What do you want, Tony?" he says.

"Is Julietta home?" I ask in my politest voice.

He just grunts at me and moves aside, still glowering like he just let a rat through the door. Hey, it ain't my fault my pop was a mick. It ain't my fault I'm a little on the short side. It ain't my fault I like to gamble and smoke cig— well, maybe that _is_ my fault, but the rest of the stuff ain't. 'Course, I can't say nothing about the way Julietta's papa treats me, 'cause if I annoy him I might end up face-down in a river tomorrow. They'll be fishing out my body and printing headlines about it in the papers.

You gotta be careful around those Sicilians. One step out of line and presto, you're dead meat.

I wonder if Spot got mixed up with any Sicilians. Maybe he got on the wrong side of an Italian gang and they killed Matchbox to teach him a lesson. Maybe Spot left the Brooklyn newsies 'cause if he didn't, then the Italian gang would pick off _all_ the Brooklyn boys one by one until there wasn't none left.

"Tony?"

I stop wondering about Spot the moment my favorite Italian (at least for now) shows up with her dark hair curling around her face the way my mama's used to. I think my mama would have liked Julietta if she had lived long enough to meet her. My pop, on the other hand, would only get drunk and try to touch Julietta the moment he laid eyes on her, which would make my mama cry and throw things at him, so I guess it's a good thing that neither of my folks are ever gonna meet her. Though I guess it's my pop's fault I like Italian girls so much, 'cause he could never resist 'em even after he got married. Mama's sisters avoided him like the plague after he'd had a whiskey or two 'cause they learned the hard way that he never kept his hands to himself.

If I ever end up like my pop, I'll throw myself off a bridge.

"You ain't been to the racetrack, have you, Tony?" Julietta asks, her dark eyes accusing me.

"Course not, sweetheart," I say. "I've been the best-behaved fella you could ask for."

Julietta's papa is still looming nearby, since the apartment is tiny, and if I don't get out of here I'll have a heart attack or something. Julietta must realize my discomfort, 'cause she asks her papa (in Italian, which makes me feel all lightheaded) if we can go down to the theater. Her papa glares at me with those endless black eyes and grunts, "_Si_."

Spot _had_ to have gotten mixed up with some rough Sicilians. Only a Sicilian could intimidate Spot Conlon into leaving his turf and his boys for some chintzy Irish bar.

"C'mon, Tony." Julietta waits 'til we've left the apartment before grabbing onto my hand, and she keeps holding on as we walk through New York and head to Irving Hall. We bump into Skittery, who looks just as run-down as the last time I saw him, and I remember that he lives somewhere close to the theater. Boy, it's still hard to believe that he don't live at the lodging house no more and I wonder where the hell _I'm _gonna live when I stop selling papers.

I sure ain't moving in with Julietta's family, that's for sure.

"How ya doin', Skitts?" I ask.

"The same," he replies. He looks at Julietta, then looks at me in a way that reminds me of Julietta's papa. "Be careful, Race. Ya hear?"

"Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. We've got a show to get to."

"Just tryin' to give ya some advice here. I've been 'round the block and it ain't pretty."

I can't believe Skittery's warning me not to make the mistakes he made with _his_ broad. Do you really think I'd get Julietta into that kind of trouble? Her family would shoot me, chop up my body, and _then_ throw me into the river.

Besides, that kinda mistake is something my pop would do, and I've spent my whole life trying to avoid making my pop's mistakes. Jimmy Higgins may have been my father, but he was a bastard and I ain't nothing like him. Nothing like him at all.


	6. VI

VI.

Spot is obviously tougher than I thought. You've _gotta_ be tough if you can listen to Crutchy flap his gums for nearly an hour and refuse to answer any of his questions. No offense to Crutchy, but listening to him for more than five minutes makes me wanna put a gun to my head. Crutchy returned to the lodging house last night to tell me about his meeting with Spot, but it was real hard to get the important stuff when he kept going off topic.

"And then that old drunkard passed out and fell off his stool, right onto the floor, Race," he told me last night. "You shoulda seen him! He was droolin' right on the floorboards. But then these other two fellas—they musta been boxers or somethin' from the way they looked—grabbed the old drunk by the arms and dragged him right outside while he was still passed out. And _then_—"

"What about Spot, Crutchy?" I had said for the fifth time. "What did ya hear from Spot?"

"Oh, _yeah_," said Crutchy, nodding his head. "Good ol' Spot. Ya know, he's a lot more polite than people think he is. Listened to all my questions like a real gent, and then he asked _me_ questions about life in Manhattan, wantin' to know how our boys are doin'. And the whole time I was thinkin' to myself, what a swell guy for carin' about us fellas, even when he ain't—"

"But did he tell ya anything? He had to have told ya _something_."

"Oh, I asked him those questions you wanted me to ask, and more than once too, but ol' Spot wouldn't tell me nothin'. Seemed real interested in us Manhattan boys instead. Ain't that swell of him?"

I couldn't believe it. I_ still_ can't believe it. Seems like Spot knows Crutchy better than _I_ do, which is ridiculous. I obviously can't depend on my own boys for help, since half of 'em are blockheads and the other half think I'm crazy, so I've gotta keep taking matters into my own hands. Which is why I've decided to follow Spot again.

He don't have that girl with him this time, Gracie or whatever her name is, and he strolls out of O'Neill's with a cap pulled low over his head, looking like an ordinary fella heading home from his job. This is the same guy who used to strut around the docks with his fancy red suspenders and his fancy cane, acting like he was something special.

What a chump.

I do the same thing I did the last time I followed Spot, keeping out of sight so he don't see me, and it's a piece of cake. I thought I got lucky last time 'cause he had Gracie to distract him, but it seems like Spot has lost his touch when it comes to keeping an eye on things. He don't even look behind him. I follow him from the saloon, all the way to some rooming house a couple of blocks over, and the bum keeps staring straight ahead, like he don't have a care in the world. You could fire a gun right into the street and he probably wouldn't care.

The old Spot would have looked over his shoulder a few times, just to make sure that the street behaved itself as long as _he_ was walking down it, and he never walked alone. I can count the number of times I've seen Spot walk the streets of New York without a crony or two by his side. The number is zero.

I really oughtta quit comparing the old Spot to the new Spot, but I just can't help it. The guy was my pal for years. I never learned his real name or who his family was or where he got that fancy cane, but he was still my pal.

What can I say? Us Italians are loyal. I guess that would make me _half_-loyal thanks to my Irish blood, but my mama brought me up well.

Spot saunters right into this run-down rooming house and I follow him inside a minute later. The moment I step through the doors I find some old broad sweeping the floor and stroll right up to her with all the Italian charm I can muster. "Scuse me, ma'am. Can ya tell me where Mr. Conlon lives? I'm a friend of his."

"Second floor, first door on the left," says the old broad, looking up from her broom.

"_Grazie_," I say with a wink.

I know I'm taking a big gamble as I head up the stairs, but I wouldn't be Racetrack Higgins if I didn't gamble. Taking chances is who I am. I pause in front of the first door on the left, staring at the scratched wood and dingy brass knob, trying to imagine how Spot ended up in this place. I always thought he would do something great. Turn the world on its head and rise higher than the rest of us, like another Pulitzer or something. I always thought that if Spot ever left the newsies, he'd do it in style.

I knock on that chintzy wooden door and wait for His Highness to appear.

"Race?"

The door swings open and I can hardly believe my eyes. Spot Conlon looks _surprised_ to see me.

"Of course I'm Race," I joke with him. "I sure ain't Roosevelt, am I?"

I'd pay fifty bucks just for a picture of his face. His eyes are all wide for a moment, but then they get narrow and he glares at me.

"You're the most stubborn son of a bitch I've ever met, Race."

"Why thank you."

"It ain't a compliment. Get the hell outta here."

"Aw, c'mon, Spot," I say. "Ain't you flattered that I took the time to come out and see ya? I just wanna talk for a few minutes. Ya know, just catch up on old times."

He don't budge from the doorway, staring me down as if he'd love nothing more than to shove me down the stairs. "I already know what you wanna talk about, you jackass, so don't bother."

"How do ya know what I'm gonna say, huh? Are you a mind reader now? You don't know nothin', Spot, so quit wastin' time and let me in, will ya?"

"I'll let you in, but only 'cause I'm tired of your whinin'."

Spot moves aside and lets me into this tiny room that's barely got any light. A couple of the floorboards are coming up and the walls look about three hundred years old. A real palace. The bed looks nice and clean though, probably 'cause of that Gracie girl, and I take a seat on the mattress without being invited.

"Nice place ya got here," I say.

Spot sinks down into a rickety old chair, still glaring at me. "Are you just here to get on my nerves or what?"

"Your _nerves_? Gee, I didn't know Spot Conlon _had_ nerves."

"I oughtta throw you out the window."

"All right, all right. I'll quit jokin' around." I don't know how Spot can stand this cramped little room, but if you sit in here long enough it can suck the happiness out of a fella. I'm surprised I'm still breathing. "Say, Spot, do you ever remember your family?" I ask.

He looks at me like I'm stupid. "What kinda question is that?"

"I'm just wonderin', that's all. If I lived in a lonely place like this, I'd be thinkin' about my family all the time, even though I don't got one no more."

"Well I don't got one either, so it don't matter."

"But you _did_ have one a long time ago, didn't ya? You didn't just crawl out from under a rock somewhere."

"What do you care?" asked Spot. "Gettin' all sentimental or somethin'? All that gamblin' has messed with your head."

"I care 'cause I don't know nothin' about you," I say. "We've been friends for ages and I don't know nothin' but your name. I've told you all about my folks and how they both passed from fever several years back. I've told you about my little brother named Paulie who I haven't seen in years, 'cause my mick aunt and uncle took their blue-eyed nephew and left my guinea ass on the street. I've told you all kinds of shit, Spot, but you're just a ghost with a big name and an ego to match."

Spot don't talk for a long moment. I'm half-scared he'll pull a gun out of nowhere and blow me away, just to shut me up for good.

"I did have a family," Spot finally says. He looks real tired all of a sudden. "But they ain't important. The Brooklyn newsies was my family, 'til I let 'em down. I mentioned a kid named Matchbox, remember?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Matchbox was a good kid. He used to sell matches before he became a newsie and he was small for his age besides. He musta been nine or ten, I think. We was sellin' on the same corner and I saw this bastard who was always tryin' to move in on my turf. I was s'posed to keep an eye on Matchbox, 'cause he got distracted real easy and was always gettin' in trouble, but I turned my back on the kid so I could take a swing at my rival. I was in the middle of punchin' him in the nose, just to scare him off and teach him a lesson, when somebody screamed."

"What happened?"

"It was Matchbox. He was playin' around in the street and got run over by a huge wagon. I was gettin' into stupid fights with some bum who wasn't worth it and one of my boys got killed right under my nose. Is it any wonder I left, Race? Can ya blame me for givin' my crown to somebody else?"

I don't know what to say. What can you say to something like that? "I never heard of no newsie gettin' run over in Brooklyn," I tell him.

"Course not. Nobody heard about it 'cause I _made sure_ nobody heard about it."

"Jesus, Spot, you act like you killed the kid yourself."

"I was in charge of the Brooklyn newsies for a long time, Race, and I never lost a single boy. Not one. I musta been on top for too long, or else this wouldn't have happened, right?"

I want to tell him he's dead wrong, that there's no such thing as being on top for too long, but I just don't know. "You're too hard on yourself, Spot," I say. "That's all I know. I think you could use a drink."


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

"So are ya happy?"

"Are _you_ happy, Race?"

"This ain't about me, dummy. I ain't the one who's workin' in a bar instead of sellin' papes. Is your new life worth it or do ya miss the old one?"

Me and Spot are sitting in a bar—not O'Neill's, but some other bar I've never been to before—and I ain't had anything to drink but Spot's on his second whiskey. The poor guy needs it after that story he told me about Matchbox. He takes a swig from his glass, looking a little less broken, and shrugs his shoulders.

"Does it matter?" he says. "I'm still poor either way, and I still haven't got a family, so who cares if I sell papers or work in a bar? I'm just a dime a dozen, the same as you and every other poor fella in New York."

"Aw, don't say that. I mean, it's true and all, but it don't have to stay that way. You've still got a shot at becomin' another Pulitzer if you keep that ego."

Spot stares into his whiskey glass, though I can see the corners of his mouth twitching, like he wants to smile. "Why did ya have to keep botherin' me?" he asks.

I smirk at him. "Why's the sky blue?"

"Really, Race. Why'd ya do it?"

"Cause you're my pal, of course. Even though ya drove me nuts, bein' close-mouthed and tellin' me to beat it all the time. Ain't it better to get your problems off your chest?"

"Guess you're right."

I barely notice the shoddy bar stool I'm sitting on. I don't even care that some drunken mick is sitting right by me, getting ale in his beard. None of that really matters anymore. "Ya know, I'm thinkin' of quitting the papers," I say. "Maybe get a job down at the track or somethin'. You can see me as a bookie, can't ya?"

"A racetrack bookie named Racetrack," says Spot. "People will love it."

"Clearly I was made for the job."

Spot finishes his whiskey and stares into his glass again, studying the leftover drops at the bottom. "You're still my pal, ya know," he says. "Nothin' changes that."

For once in my life, I can't think of a wisecrack. "Thanks," I say. "You're still my pal too."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>And that's it. Just a short little ending to tie everything up. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed!


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